


The Small Hours

by deathorthetoypiano



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathorthetoypiano/pseuds/deathorthetoypiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post s2e6. </p>
<p>Lix stayed at Freddie's funeral, despite her instincts - and old habits - telling her to leave. She stayed for Bel, because she might need rescuing or a shoulder to cry on, someone to make sure she was alright, or at least as alright as she could be, given the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Small Hours

She never stayed long at funerals. She hated funerals. They meant that she was expected to wear a dress – one of the two she owned, black, fitted, flattering, but she hated that too, because of how it apparently transformed her into a completely different woman, and how it suddenly seemed to give men licence to stare at her. They were awkward, and someone usually drank too much. Nobody wanted to talk about the person who had died, but they all felt they had to. Funerals, in her opinion, were grotesque and unbearable. So she merely chose not to bear them for longer than necessary. One of the perks of being Lix Storm was that nobody challenged her when she made her excuses and fled.

She hated this funeral in particular. The lowered voices, the sympathetic but surreptitious glances towards Camille – who had told her he was dead? Who knew where to look for her, hunted her down so easily, when he couldn’t do it? How had she managed to come back to him, now that he lay cold in a coffin, when she couldn’t come back to him alive? – and those same glances, from those who had known him better, longer, those who had paid attention in their offices and in the pub after work, those who looked beyond the next scoop, towards Bel, too. Everyone wanted to know what they were thinking, but none of these people could understand it, not really. Constant variations on “such a shame”, “so much potential”, “lovely young man”, and so on. It was infuriating. All she wanted was to sit around with the rest of them, the ones who had really known him, with plenty of cigarettes and endless whisky, and talk about their memories, and how they missed him. This forced, public sorrow felt wrong, and disrespectful. It was the exact reason that she avoided wakes, preferring instead to slink away in a haze of smoke after the service. She had done it at countless funerals, ever since she had escaped the funeral of a favourite uncle, and hidden, undisturbed, up a tree at the bottom of the garden, and drunk the bottle of wine she had stolen on her way out. Aged only twelve, she drank until she was sick, but she knew it was better than staying in the room with all those adults, pretending that they missed him, and never thinking to ask how she felt. Through all those wars, the horrible deaths of so many colleagues, right across the world, she always slunk away as soon as she could. She needed to grieve alone, or, more often than she liked to admit, she needed to hide her lack of grief.

But this was different, unavoidable, a duty she had to fulfil. Not because he would have wanted it – he had noticed it, her disappearing act, and called her on it, and she had explained, and he had understood because he had a knack for understanding. Not because it would have caused too much of a stir to have been absent – she caused frequent disturbance, and they all got over it, and besides, there were more important things for them to think about. It was a duty she had to Bel, because in their horror and shock, nobody had really thought to look out for her. She needed somebody there, and Lix wanted to be sure that she had someone. She was infinitely glad of this when she noticed Bel looking trapped, in dire need of rescuing. She swept over, in a haze of silk and cigarettes and ‘darling’s and distraction, and took her away, furnished her with a drink and an excuse, and didn’t expect a thing from her. 

And when, a few minutes later, a small hand slipped into hers as they sat at a table in a gloomy corner, Lix didn’t question it. She let it lie there, and she stroked the knuckles gently with her thumb, providing the comfort that she knew was difficult to come by, as they sat and watched people make small talk. “It’s just another meeting to them,” Bel said softly. “A chance to get information. They don’t really care.” Lix didn’t look at her, just nodded, her lips pressed so tightly together that it hurt a little, stoically holding back her tears because, really, she had no right to them when Bel was hurting so much more. “Let’s go,” Bel suggested suddenly, pulling Lix to her feet, and they slipped out unnoticed into the night. It wasn’t until they were outside, Bel clinging to Lix in the cold and shaking, that they considered where to go. Eventually they settled on Lix’s flat, bigger, warmer and more comfortable than Bel’s, and, helpfully, further away. Hand in hand, they clicked past rows of darkening buildings, and crept up the stairs past the other doors until Lix stopped, produced a key, and let them in. 

Lamplight, whisky, bread and jam, constant chatter because the silence was unbearable, chatter that changed slowly into the first honest conversation either of them had had about Freddie since he was left bleeding on the grass all those weeks ago. Kisses pressed to her temples because that was what she needed. Kisses to her lips because that was what she wanted, and down her throat because it was worth every penny she had ever earned, just to hear her gasp. Nudging the collar of her dress out of the way because her skin was too perfect to leave covered up. Dragging her teeth over her ribs because it was all she could do not to mark her. Biting at her hip because she lost control. Sliding her hand between her thighs because she feared what Bel, holding her breath with her hands tangled in her hair, would do to her if she stopped now. Holding her until she stopped shaking and her breathing was normal again. Allowing Bel to push her back against the cushions without arguing because she needed it, too. Stroking her hair as she cried, and crying with her.

She hadn’t stayed long at the funeral because she was no longer needed there. Where she was needed was here, curled uncomfortably on her bed, lying awake in the small hours, cradling the soft, sleeping form that was pressed against her, guarding against her nightmares and her cruelly perfect dreams.


End file.
